


darling, i'll never hurt you like the world did me.

by whataboutateakettle



Category: Scorpion (TV 2014)
Genre: Baby Fic, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-26 01:52:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3832630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whataboutateakettle/pseuds/whataboutateakettle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Y’know, the way this works is you have to tell me what bothering you. I’m a psychiatrist, <i>Princess</i>, not a mind reader.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	darling, i'll never hurt you like the world did me.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kyrakat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyrakat/gifts).



> So, this started as a couple of jokey tweets with [Kyra](www.melvester.tumblr.com) about how amazing a tired exasperated scruffy Toby would be with a baby. And then my brain betrayed my heart and wrote this painfully fluffy _thing_. No, even I don't understand.  
>  (No name bc I suck at baby names, sorry.)
> 
> (I'm not saying you _have to_ listen to To Build a Home by Cinematic Orchestra while reading this, but if you want a very specific type of chest pain, I'd give it a go)

He drops the journal back onto the table, giving up on reading anything. He can barely keep his eyes open right now, or even hear himself think, so what’s the point anyway? Instead he shifts her from his left arm, now numb and tingly, to his right, holding her gently in the crook of his elbow and rocking her gently. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, before opening them wide, hoping the nanosecond power nape will help.

She’s crying; she’s _been_ crying for hours. It’s loud, and frantic, and makes his heart hurt. It shouldn’t, he knows. Maybe _that’s_ what makes it hurt. There’s no reason she should be crying. She’s been fed, the empty bottle tossed on the coffee table as he paces around it. Her diaper is empty, she’s been burped successfully, and she’s too young to be teething. He’s told her stories, played her favourite songs, and then some of his. None of it has helped.

In the pit of his stomach there’s the notion that it’s him. She’s crying because of him. That she knows he’s balancing on the edge of screwing this all up and he’s trying _so hard_. The 11 pounds in his arms are more important to him than any of his internal organs. Hell, than all of them combined. But right now he’s so tired he can barely feel his legs.

“Come on, _Princess_ ,” he mutters, voice low as he presses a kiss to her pink furrowed forehead. “Tell the Doctor what’s wrong.”

She shrieks, even louder now. He can do this; he’s determined to be able to do this. And sure, Mom may be able to settle her down in mere seconds, but Mom isn’t here right now. He’s the one who insisted Mom have a day off. _We’ll be fine_ , he reassured her last night, just go, have some time to yourself. _You need it_. She did, he saw the strain behind her eyes, heard the sigh in her breath.

“Did you know that I’m a psychiatrist, huh,” he asks her, adjusts her beanie, “I have an MD from Harvard and a PhD from Berkeley and I’m going to be damned if I can’t get a beautiful girl like you to stop crying.” She hiccups through the cries, and he freezes. “Thankfully you’re too young to remember any of that. Because Mommy would _kill_ me if your first word was a swear word.”

He racks his brain, even though he thinks half of it has already shut down. _Think, Curtis, think._ He ‘s gone through sleep therapy techniques and relaxation techniques, he’s willing to try hypnosis if she could keep her eyes open long enough.  

He bounces his arm gently, “Y’know, the way this works is you have to tell me what bothering you. I’m a psychiatrist, Princess, not a mind reader-”

He looks around the room desperately; his anatomy textbooks have been pushed aside for baby development books, and diapers. And toys. _So many toys_. His eyes fall on one, her favourite, a soft toy monkey, almost longer than her. He insisted on calling it Harlow, even though no one else really -

 _Of course._ How did he not think of _attachment theory_?!

“Oh man, I _must_ be tired if it taken me this long,” He looks down at her, held low but securely in his arms. “You’re lucky you’re cute, you know that.”

He lifts her up so she’s resting against his chest, and she fusses a little, but continues crying. He speaks softly, “Princess, we’re gonna try something and if I’m right, which I almost always am, then one of us is going to be sleeping like baby in a few minutes.”

He lowers himself slowly down on the couch, let’s his back lie flat against the seat, groans slightly. “Ah, _my vertebrae_. Now, I know this is usually a mom thing, but just give me chance, yeah? Don’t go having favourites just because she has the more important parts.” His eyes are bleary and if this doesn’t work he might just start screaming with her.

She stops crying for second, fusses a little before scrunching her face up again. “ _I know_ , I like them too. I’m not even trying to compete with you right now, so give me a little credit huh?”

 He shifts her on his chest, lines her head up with his heart; his weary, exhausted, three sizes too big, heart. He makes sure her head is to the side, places a hand to hold it so; she can lift her neck just enough for him to be cautious. He lets his other hand drift over hers, feels as she grabs at his finger with her tiny, warm fists.

Her cries reverberate through his chest at first, and he tries not to panic. Makes sure his heartbeat is steady. For her. But then, he notices her screams getting weaker, quieter, until she’s just huffing softly against him.

“You feel that, huh? That’s for you, Princess.” He whispers, strokes her head gently.

She coos. Actually coos, happy and relaxed, and if he wasn’t trying so hard to be still, he’d pump the air.  He can’t help but smile, wide and exhausted.

 _Finally_ , he thinks, and then, _we’ll get to do it all again tomorrow._ His heart rests a little easier and he closes his eyes to the wave of relief.

* * *

Happy unlocks the door quietly, hoping that at least one of the people inside is asleep and she’s about to risk waking them up. She walks in, taking care with her boots against the wooden floor, and frowns at the darkness of the living room, until in the hazy glow she spots a yellow beanie, and a pair of feet propped up onto the arm rest.

Toby’s asleep, snoring softly, hands still wound around her soft body. She’s not surprised, he has trouble letting go of her when she’s awake. For eight and a half months she’d been frustrated at his protectiveness, dismissed it, fought over it. And now she gets it, wholeheartedly. _In her bones_ , she gets it .

She fidgets, fusses a little, and Happy realises she’s awake. Relaxed, and calm, which is a rarity, but awake. “Hey kiddo, you give Daddy a hard time?” she says softly, crouches down, reaches out and runs her hand over her head. Her fingers brush over Toby’s too, but he doesn’t stir. He looks exhausted, even while sleeping.  She is too, but having some time to herself has helped clear her head, the fog behind her eyes. He was right, though she’d never admit it; she needed some time to herself, to focus on something else. But that didn’t mean she didn’t miss the scene in front of her.

She purses her lips, eyes widening for a moment when she sees her. Toby says her vision isn’t that good yet. Lack of focus, hazy colors, and no permanence, but Happy can always spot a twinkle of recognition in her dark eyes.

She needs to move them, she knows, to get them both to their own beds, but she can’t bear to, not right now.

 “I missed you,” she says, leans forward, presses a soft kiss to her cheek, before reaching up and pressing a kiss to his.

 “Hey, look who came home,” he says quietly as his eyes blink open, a sleepy smile on his face.

She smiles apologetically, before picking her up from his chest carefully, and cradling her against her own. She feels grounded for the first time all day. He moves to get up but she stops him, instead nudges him to his side and slowly lies down next to him. Their legs tangle together so they can both fit. It’s not the first time they’ve done this and she’s pretty sure getting this couch is the best thing they’ve done together. Well, second best.

He smiles down at her, at both of them, before running his hand gently down her side, letting it rest on her hip. He dips his head to press his lips to hers. She cranes her neck up, deepens the kiss, craving more until she moans into his mouth. He pulls away then, for both their sakes and presses a kiss to the back of her yellow beanie.

She watches him, all gentle eyes and hands. Toby Curtis, who was speechless in the delivery room, letting her squeeze his hand until it turned blue; still infuriating in a hundred ways but trying his best. Toby Curtis, who loves his daughter with the warmth and promise he never had himself. Who holds her at night like he’d never choose to let go.

“She likes our heartbeats,” he points out. She looks down at her daughter, nestled against her chest. Wonder if she can feel the way her heart skips when she looks at her. She looks up at him and he’s staring at them, gaze warm and steady, and tired. Just as tired as she was last night; as they probably will be tomorrow.

But between the tiredness, and the crying, and stressed rush of mornings, she finds a haven, soft hands and warm eyes and steady heartbeats. A home that’s all hers, _theirs._

**Author's Note:**

> P.S. The attachment theory that Toby remembers is about Harlow's baby monkeys study in the 1960s, if anyone is interested. Thanks, stage one psych papers!


End file.
